Touch Has A Memory
by nrink nrink
Summary: Did Mr Thornton ever get his gloves back after that disastrous proposal? This is my take on it! The story is loosely based on the BBC TV series, and the first of a few short chapters. I would be grateful for comments, as this is my first N&S fic. Thanks!
1. The Aftermath

_What can I do to drive away _

_Remembrance from mine eyes, for they have seen,_

_Ay, an hour ago, my brilliant Queen!_

_Touch has a memory. Oh say, love, say,_

_What can I do to kill it and be free_

_In my old liberty?_

_**Lines to Fanny**_

_~John Keats~_

He was gone.

The girl closed her eyes, listening to his rapid, purposeful steps descending the stairs, and a moment later, the front door slamming with a violence that sent a palpable tremor through the house. Veiled in the opalescent light of the drawing room window, she stood with the perfect stillness of one in shock.

Slowly, Margaret began to breathe again.

Mr Thornton was gone, but something of his turbulent presence lingered still, like a particularly stubborn ghost that would not be exorcised. As she made her way, a little shakily, to clear the side table burdened by a pot of tea, still warm and untouched, she sensed him in the vital, trembling energy in the air, and his faint, familiar scent of freshly laundered clothes that survived somehow, the walk from New Street to Crampton. And though the uncomfortable guest had departed, the words he had left behind rang in her ears, echoing in her heart:

_"I don't want to possess you. I wish to marry you because I love you!" _

The memory of his audacity brought a renewed flush of anger to Margaret's cheeks, and with a brittle tinkle of china, she set down on the sideboard the delicate cup and saucer preserved, with so care through the long journey from Helstone. "How presumptuous he is! How I detest him! But what can one expect, from a mere tradesman?" she thought despairingly, "But surely, surely I could not have repulsed – no, _rejected_ him in any other way?"

Distressed, she drifted back to the window and flung it open. At once, the outside air, cool and heavy with gravelly northern voices, coal-smoke, and the mixture of street-smells that mama always found so disagreeable came flooding in. Margaret drew a deep breath; willing, if nothing else, that the breeze would carry Mr Thornton away, whatever remained of him, far across the purple moors, so that the homely aroma of papa's books could settle back again where it belonged. On the cobbled road below, life went on, uninterrupted by the rupture between the man and woman upstairs, cataclysmic though it may have seemed to both; a carriage rumbled by, men and women, moving briskly about their business, a stray dog sniffing in the gutter.

She imagined him threading his own way through the crowd; he would be halfway to the mill by now, his long stride quickened by resentment and a desire to put as much distance as possible between himself and the scene of his mortification.

Her slender fingers tightened on the window-sill. It was not his resentment she had seen, but rather, an immensity of hurt, a strange vulnerability in his grey eyes before his honest temper flared to match her own; Mr Thornton did not have, as Henry did, the reserves of a shallower, sardonic character. In many ways, he was a living conundrum to her, as yet unsolved and as inscrutable as the Sphinx, but she understood instinctively that his integrity would permit no dissimulation.

"I have wounded him," she whispered, and to her horror, Margaret found herself suddenly on the brink of tears.

She turned her back to the street, but as she shifted, the pale light revealed what she, in her misery, had missed before. A pair of gloves on the side-board. They were of soft, black leather, and far more expensive than any her father had ever owned. Turning them over, Margaret saw that they were well worn, exquisitely made for a pair of slim, long-fingered hands.

And she remembered at once, with a hot colour creeping up her neck, those same hands on her waist only yesterday, and how she had clung to their owner, first in protectiveness, and then, in fear. She sank into a chair, confused and ashamed, yet determined to banish the unruly recollection to the back of her mind.

Then, Margaret knew what she must do. With new determination, she rose, sweeping out of the drawing room and into her own bedchamber, where she unlocked the small drawer in her bureau. There, Mr Thornton's gloves found their temporary resting place, beside a bundle of rose-scented letters from Edith and other small treasures from Helstone and Harley Street. One day, they would be reunited with the man to whom they belonged, but no one else must know of the manner in which they had been left in her possession. Not even papa, with his studious and benign curiosity, for surely, no friendship, however intimate, could endure such a revelation.

This would be forever her secret, and Mr Thornton's.

**Author's note:**

This is a piece of fan fiction inspired by the novel "North & South" and the BBC TV series of the same name. I don't own any of the characters, and this story is written purely for fun, and hopefully the enjoyment other fans of the book/series.


	2. A World of Misted Glass

For John Thornton, the external world had ceased to exist.

He passed through it in a state of automatism, unaware, unseeing, unhearing. One long stride after another, a rush of cobblestones. But at the end of the street, he stopped, woken by the shock of other bodies hustling through the narrow turn and steep flight of stairs that led away from Crampton.

He took the steps at a more measured pace, conscious for the first time, of the damp smell of rain in the air, the rising wind and lowering sky funnelling through parallel walls of brown brick. Slowly, he was beginning to reclaim himself. Never before had he experienced such a terrifying absence of rational thought, his entire being a husk, beaten and buffeted from within by a whirlpool of emotion; and at the vortex of it all, was the bitter agony of rejection.

It was easy enough to put one foot before the other, to feel the gritty crunch of dirt between boot and pavement, but to keep one's mind from straying to what was buried in the heart, to keep one's countenance strictly schooled to some semblance of normality, was quite a different proposition altogether.

_Proposition. To propose_. Now, perhaps, was the time to cultivate a life-long aversion for the word. To purge it forever from his vocabulary. Did commonplace phobias begin like this? The fear of water, open spaces, darkness, dogs – an ironic smile found its way to his lips. He, John Thornton, a Milton manufacturer and a magistrate, was afraid of a word.

The ground levelled out, opening into the wide, noisy thoroughfare of New Street, with its rows of shops, omnibuses, human traffic and unabashed mercantile activity. Breath came more easily now; a sense of homecoming, relief, that he was crossing an invisible border into his own country – it was ridiculous of course - Crampton was after all, a suburb of Milton, but such was its association with the Hales that it was becoming to him, almost a part of the South.

The Hales. What would Mr Hale think of him now? No doubt _she_ would confide the morning's horrors to her father. At once, he saw the old gentleman's kindly brow knitting into a disapproving frown, the silent eloquence of hurt and betrayal in his eyes. They were friends, even kindred spirits in a way that neither had expected, but he readily admitted to himself that Mr Hale's goodwill was unlikely to extend to giving away his only daughter to a mere mill owner. A tradesman. It was an appellation that lay in murky middle-ground between snobbery and truth, and if pressed, one that he had to acknowledge. He was nothing, if not brutally honest with himself.

_Tradesman_ - the very word seared his lips. That Mr Hale might perceive his proposal as an affront had been a risk that he, at the height of his passion, had been prepared to take, but now that he had rolled the dice and lost, the thought of having thrown way Mr Hale's regard struck him like a physical blow.

So, it was with something less than his usual assurance that he entered the gate of his own little fiefdom; crossing the courtyard hemmed by the looming bulk of the mill and the great house that abutted it, he looked up, the briefest of hesitations, before continuing his progress. And if the black-clad woman waiting at the first floor window of the grey-stoned house had seen the consternation writ large on her son's pale brow, she gave no sign of it.

He was home. The ceaseless whirring of machinery, a subtle vibration under his feet confirmed his journey's conclusion. Yet, there was no comfort in the thought, only a leaden heaviness in the heart, an immense tiredness and at the end of it all, a confession to be made.

He paused at the threshold, shivering, but not with cold. Strange, how her waving dark hair came so vividly to him, like the shining softness of a bolt of silk; his hands, not his mind owned the memory. Only yesterday, it was on this very flagstone, the one with a long sideways crack, black and spreading like a wintry branch where she had -

_Where_. It was not a place, but rather, a moment in time slipped beyond all recalling.

Abruptly, he closed the door; there was a sharp prickling behind his eyes, and for a few eternal minutes, he was achingly alone, in a world of misted glass.

When he was again his own master, John Thornton entered the hall and began unfastening his gloves; absently, fingers sought the familiar buttons, and finding none, his perplexed gaze turned downwards.

His hands were bare. For a time, he stared, unwilling to believe the testimony of his own eyes. A frantic search of his pockets yielded nothing.

Then he remembered with a sharp stab of dismay, exactly where he had left them.

* * *

Mrs Thornton had been waiting, watching her son from the gap he had carelessly left, with the door narrowly ajar. A single brace of candles illuminated the office, so that he was surrounded by the brown shadows of dusk. A mess of ledger books lay open on the mahogany desk, a crumpled cravat beside the inkwell, but she could not see his face because he was in his chair, its tall back towards her. All she could see of him was the pale glow of a rolled-up shirtsleeve, his dark head resting in the crook of his arm.

A growing wedge yellow light under the door heralded her arrival; a flutter of flame as cool air from the corridor outside flooded in.

"John. It's nearly midnight."

He roused at once, an instant of confusion before he could muster a smile. "Mother?"

Glancing at the ledger books, she said, "Surely the accounts can wait till the morning."

He pulled up a chair for her, close beside his own, so that she too, was within the circle of candle-light.

"They needed looking over, and there will be enough to do tomorrow."

Scattered on the desk were sheets of paper covered with figures, tabulated in his neat, vigorous hand. Work was an excellent salve for the spirit; she knew from bitter experience that it left no time for the mind to turn upon and devour itself. Long days and nights at the draper's shop had told her of her son's silent grief, and now, a handful of numbers signified his unspoken anguish.

How different he was from Fanny, with her golden hair and fussy prettiness. Hers was a superficial beauty that would fade with age, entirely in keeping with her character. But John had always been striking, if not handsome. Dark colouring, keen blue eyes, a severity and reserve bred, perhaps by the adversity of his boyhood had made him something of an enigma among the young ladies of Milton. A most desirable young man, except to the one woman he had chosen to love.

She stifled the hatred rising in her heart, watched him close the books, arrange his papers.

"John, will you – will you ever return to Crampton?"

A pause. At last, he said, "Yes. Mr Hale was kind enough to lend me a few books. I suppose I should return them."

"You could send a servant, John."

"No, mother. That would be a discourtesy. I owe Mr Hale an apology, and I have no wish to give him more grief than I already have by omitting it."

"An apology?" she exclaimed in disbelief. "The debt is his – and Miss Hale's, not yours!"

He was surprised at the violence of her response. Then, the smile that always came a little unwillingly, lit his face as he took her hand and held it. "Mother, won't you listen to me? If a poor fellow, one of the men, or an apprentice presumed to beg me for Fanny's hand, would you not take offence?"

She was silent.

Slowly, he rose, constrained at first by her grasp, and as she relinquished her hold he began to pace, up, down, again and again as he always did when he was troubled. Boy and man, he could never stay still; it was perhaps the one thing that he had inherited from George. Her gaze followed him, black and unrelenting.

"I was once a draper's boy, and Miss Hale is a lady."

At once, she flung up her head, for she could no longer bear the despondency in his voice. "Those days are over, John. You must not speak of them again. You are her superior in fortune, intellect and endeavour, and any man or woman who thinks otherwise is a fool!"

He said nothing, but she understood her son better than any soul living; his mind was made up, and not for anything on earth would he change it. Reaching for his cravat, she smoothed out the creases and folded it into a neat square.

Without looking up, she asked, "So. When will you go?"

"Tomorrow, if I can spare the time."

"And will you ask her –"

"Never."

Satisfied, Mrs Thornton closed her eyes. A heady, combustible mixture of joy, relief and righteous anger engulfed her. She could never feel the same about Fanny – it was only John who could provoke such emotion within her, a reminder that she still possessed him, no – rather, that they still belonged to each other.

"Come, mother, let's go. It has been a long day." She opened her eyes and saw how weary he looked.

"Yes, it's time this day ended," Mrs Thornton said softly, as she extinguished the candles.

**Author's note:**

Many thanks to everyone for the encouraging reviews! I was rather overwhelmed, to be honest! The entire bit about Mr Thornton feeling that he needed to apologise to Mr Hale, and fearing for his friendship is entirely made up and didn't come out in the TV series or the book. But I thought that he just might, given his honesty and how much he valued Mr Hale's friendship – so you know now I'm not being strictly true to either book or TV series. I should add that Mr Thornton's journey home from Crampton was covered in the novel, and is definitely more angsty than my version. Hopefully Chapter 2 works. Thanks for reading!


	3. Margaret's Secret

**Chapter 3 – Margaret's Secret**

The snow had come in the darkest hour before sunrise, bringing with it a creeping chill that penetrated every part of the house. Margaret was awake, and for the last hour, she had lain curled on her side, listening to the soft rattle of wind-buffeted glass.

She had never thought to find beyond her frost-bound window anything of beauty. Today, it was not the sallow northern dawn that cast its heavy pall of sorrow over her. Today, the world outside was one of twilit blueness, patterned by the paler swirl and eddy of snow, a light that leeched every other colour and the smallest sound out of everything it touched. All her life, she would never forget the magical quality of that morning, even the hand she held up to the light had taken on a soft cerulean sheen; a mermaid's palm and slim tapering fingers, turning in a sea of silence.

_ If only papa could see this._

Her smile faded. A tear trembling, fell round and shining on the sheets. _Papa_. She rose, and drawing on her dressing down, padded across the narrow landing to his room. It was exactly as he had left it, for neither she nor Dixon could yet bring themselves to strip it of all that had belonged to him in life. His slippers at the foot of the bed, pointed neatly outwards; an abandoned book, already wearing a thin coat of dust, lying open on the bedside table. For a long while, she stood by the door, absorbing as she did every morning since the day he died, the enormity of his absence.

For one more day, this shrine to his memory would remain undisturbed. Tomorrow, on her last day in Milton, she would visit it one final time; then, the door to the Past would be closed forever.

In her own room, Margaret completed her simple toilette and began the task she could put off no longer. She turned the key to the tiny locked drawer in her bureau. Edith's letters, the small childish mementoes from the South and her most treasured possession – a cameo brooch containing a braid of her mother's hair – were already wrapped and nestled in a corner of her carpet bag downstairs. The growing daylight, more prosaic than magical now, revealed her secret. From the satin-lined drawer, she removed a pair of gloves, faintly rose-scented from their long residence amidst Edith's extravagantly perfumed missives.

Margaret held them between her hands, and then with great tenderness, laid them in the small, flat box that had recently housed her own. She could not think of Mr Thornton without a pang of regret. The day after they had parted in anger, he had come again, bearing a basket of fruit for mama, and as he strode into the drawing room unannounced, her surprise was so complete that she could neither rise nor greet him. His gaze passed over her as though she had been no more than a bowl of flowers on the table. From her low stool beside her mother, he was terrifyingly close, so close that she could see with absolute clarity, the colour of his eyes. They were not grey, as she had once supposed them, but a hot and deeply-veined blue.

"I met Dr Donaldson, ma'am and as he said fruit would be good for you, I have taken the liberty – the great liberty – of bringing you some that seemed to me fine."

And papa's voice, tremulous with gratitude, "Fetch a plate, Margaret – a basket – anything." Unwillingly, she came to her feet, not quite daring to meet Mr Thornton's eyes.

Still, she saw the eagerness in her father's face, and a quick, stolen glance at Mr Thornton told her that he too had felt the warmth of friendship, unmistakable and undiminished in the firm grasp of the hand that clasped his own. If Mr Thornton was startled, he gave no sign of it; for the space of a heartbeat, their eyes met, but before he looked away, she knew that he had understood. She had said nothing to her father, and so, he too would keep his silence.

"I must go," he said hurriedly. "I cannot stay. If you will forgive this liberty, – my rough ways – too abrupt, I fear – but I will be more gentle next time. You will allow me the pleasure of bringing you some fruit again, if I should see any that is tempting. Good afternoon, Mr Hale. Goodbye, ma'am."

And without a single word to her, he was gone.

In the days and weeks that passed, her every attempt to speak with him alone, so that she might return what was rightfully his, was thwarted - by his sudden departures, Dixon's unexpected appearances, her father's insistent monopoly of his only friend's attention. At these times, Margaret found herself vexed beyond measure.

It would have been easy enough to put the gloves where he had left them; more than once, she had seen his searching gaze pass over the sideboard. Surely, it was the ladylike thing to do, to pretend that nothing had ever happened between them. Edith would have condoned it. Yet, there was a rank smell of cowardice about it, a dissimulation that her honest nature would never countenance. And because Margaret admired his courage - however unwillingly - she was determined that he should not find the virtue that shone so strongly in all that he did, lacking in herself.

Then, with Frederick's arrival and her mother's death, in the grief and anguish of the months that followed she had all but forgotten what she owed him.

Little by little, Margaret straightened the gloves in their box, noting the minute scuffs that inevitably came with use, here and there, a stitch come undone. They were worn, but not without elegance. But was not their owner too, a man scoured by experience, had he not known the vicissitudes of life? He was not perfection, but what right had she to expect such a thing in a mortal man? Kindness, integrity, compassion he had in abundance; against that, she set in the scales his pride, high temper, a certain inflexibility. Even so, the whole with all his virtues and flaws was not unpleasing to her.

Quite deliberately, she placed her own hand against the glove that lay uppermost, and all unbidden, came the familiar lines, read long ago in the sunshine of her youth at Helstone:

_For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,  
And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss._

A tide of colour rose in her cheeks. Let this be her farewell to him; in that simple gesture she was laying to rest forever all that had passed between them.

"Miss Margaret?"

It was Dixon, her heavy step creaking up the stairs. Down came the lid, the brown paper folded over, and Margaret was knotting the string when she heard Dixon calling her name from the doorway.

"Miss Margaret, your breakfast is ready."

"Yes, Dixon, I shan't be a minute."

A shadow fell, a comfortable bulk, the warm brown scent of butter and fresh-baked bread beside her. "What is it, Miss? Come down and have some tea. I'll make up that parcel for you if you like."

Margaret shook her head. "It's done now," and with an odd little smile, cuffed a stray tear away.

A pause, Dixon's face crinkling with alarm. "There, there, child. Don't cry. Poor Mr Hale is with your sweet mama, never fear."

An impulse of affection overcame her. "Dear old Dixon! I haven't the slightest doubt of it." And bestowing a swift embrace on her stunned servant, Margaret held her at arm's length said, laughing, "Oh, look, I've got flour on my dress! Whatever will Mrs Thornton say?"

"A pretty pattern it is too," grumbled Dixon, surveying the damage. "Well, you'd best come along now Miss and have your breakfast before braving that old dragon in her den."

**Author's note:**

Dear everyone, my apologies for not having updated in a while, and thanks so very much for the encouraging messages! The conversation between Mr Hale and Mr Thornton comes from Chapter 27 of the novel, which I've tried to work into the narrative. The quote:

"_For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,  
And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss"_

is from "Romeo and Juliet," Act 1, Scene 5.

Chapter 4 (the final one) is on the way, and should hopefully be up within the next few days. Thanks again for reading!


	4. A Thing of No Consequence

**Chapter 4 – A Thing of No Consequence**

"My son is gone to Oxford, but if you will wait, he should be home soon enough. I suppose, Miss Hale, that you might wish to see him?"

Seated on a straight-backed chair beside Aunt Shaw, Margaret gripped her reticule, for her mutinous heart had leaped painfully at the thought of Mr Thornton's presence in Oxford. "Indeed," she said with all the firmness she could summon, "I should very much like to thank Mr Thornton. He has been a most kind and obliging friend to my father. We – my father was always fortunate in his friendships, and Mr Thornton was very dear to him."

"Then you must stay a while."

When Margaret did not reply, Mrs Thornton darted her a sharp look, and did not speak of her son again. So, Margaret sat in the solemn splendour of the drawing room for what seemed an eternity, while the conversation flowed on without her. She was only vaguely aware of Aunt Shaw's genteel voice ploughing on about the price of silks and lace in London, how much warmer it was in the South, how impossible it was to travel comfortably in winter. Of Mrs Thornton's answers, she took no notice at all.

They had not waited above ten minutes when the door opened; Margret rose, knowing instinctively that he had returned at last. He had not expected her, and stood for a moment in shock, before he moved again with the vigour she remembered so well. Seeing him, she was struck anew by the nobility of his bearing, the austere beauty that he wore so unconsciously. But today, his face was marked by a strange pallor that she took for grief.

"John," said Mrs Thornton, "This lady is Mrs Shaw, Miss Hale's aunt. I am sorry to say, that Miss Hale's call is to wish us goodbye."

He bowed to Aunt Shaw, briefly took Margaret's offered hand.

"You are going then?"

"Yes," Margaret said. "We leave for London tomorrow."

"And you are never coming back?" Then, in a voice so low that she strained to hear him, "No. Why should she, when there is no one to keep her here?"

He said nothing more, and turning away, set down his hat and gloves on the table. Her whole attention was absorbed by him; she could not see his face, but he was very still and his fingers, gripping the table's bevelled edge were starkly white against the darkness of his mourning suit.

An odd sensation, very like a thrust to the heart brought tears to her eyes.

Quietly, she said, "Mr Thornton, I am come to express my gratitude for all your kindness to us – to my father and mother – during our time in Milton. And I – I should also like to return your gloves. I am so sorry, I should never have kept them."

She looked up, saw his frank astonishment, how reluctantly he took from her the flat brown parcel that now lay in his hands. There was so much she wanted to say to him, so much to be explained, yet her lips would not form the words that poured so heedlessly into her mind and heart, clamouring for expression against all dignity and propriety. With a supreme effort, she quelled them at last, and when she spoke again, there was only a faint tremor in her voice, almost imperceptible, so that afterwards he was sure that he had imagined it.

"Mr Thornton, I hope you will not think the worse of me for what I have done."

For a time, he was silent, his eyes burning dark and unreadable. "Miss Hale, do you truly care for my good opinion?" A pause. "I was your father's friend, and all that I did, I did for his sake."

Then, he laid the parcel on the table as though it were a thing of no account.

All the emotion welling within her cried out against the truth of what he had said. In a moment of passion, she reached for his arm. But she was too late, for he moved to the door where Aunt Shaw, visibly relieved at having completed the obligatory courtesies, was taking leave of her hostess.

"Ah, Margaret, my dear, there you are! Come and say goodbye to Mrs Thornton."

And so, she was forced to compose herself once more. Like one in a dream, Margaret crossed the threshold for the last time, aware only of how Mr Thornton kept his distance as he followed them down the steps to the waiting carriage in the mill yard. Irresolutely, she halted, lifted her eyes and saw a look pass between mother and son, of such intensity that she could not but know its meaning. Mrs Thornton had reclaimed her son; now, he belonged to no woman but her.

The knowledge of it wounded Margaret, and she turned her back on them, filled with a yearning for sanctuary. She wished that she could fly to a place where her soul could be numbed, where pain and loss had no effect, where his proximity could no longer afflict her.

The snow was everywhere, swarming in the wind, stinging Margaret's cheek as she felt for the open carriage door. Gratefully, she took the hand offered her; warm and steady it was, slim and long-fingered. She let go, and as the door swung to, the man stepped aside. She would always remember her final glimpse of him, the brilliance of his eyes and the snow, cotton-white, settling on his lips and in his dark hair.

* * *

John Thornton watched them go, the dull ache in his breast growing steadily, consuming his entire being. For an instant, the impassive mask he had worn all that interminable day slipped, he let his shoulders droop and passed a weary hand across his brow. The throbbing pain in his temples that began in Oxford had gathered force, and his only desire now, was to lie down in solitude and silence of his own room.

For much of his life, he had been schooled in self-denial, but never till today, had his strength been so sorely tested. He crossed the yard with less than his usual energy, let himself into the office, neglecting to shut the door until a gust of snow billowed in after him. At his desk he found a pile of purchase orders to be signed, and as he dropped into his chair, felled by fatigue, he let his head sink into his hands.

Now and forever, he would be haunted by the memory of her touch, of fair tapering fingers, and the cold kiss of the bracelet that graced her beloved wrist.

* * *

As the carriage approached the mill gate, Aunt Shaw who had so far observed Milton with a revolted fascination, turned to the window, determined to memorize for the entertainment of her London friends the novel sight and sound of an industrial monstrosity that produced the cotton no one wished to wear.

"Oh, how odd."

"What is it, Aunt?" Margaret asked tiredly.

"Why, Mr Thornton, of course!" Aunt Shaw exclaimed. "It is most extraordinary. He must have formed a strong attachment to your father indeed, for I have never seen a man so moved."

When Margaret, who had closed her eyes and slipped like one utterly exhausted into her corner of the carriage, roused herself, she saw only the empty mill yard, rapidly vanishing behind a falling curtain of snow.

Margaret did not answer at once, for she could not trust herself to speak. When they had left Marlborough Mills safely behind them, she said:

"Yes. They were friends, for all their disparities in age, situation and learning. He was a great comfort to papa when mother died." Then softly, she added, as though to herself, "He was a great comfort to us both."

Mrs Shaw could rein in her curiosity no longer. "What was in that parcel Margaret? What keepsake of your father's could possibly move Mr Thornton so? I never saw a colder countenance in any man. And such taciturnity! He has not half of Mr Lennox's wit or grace of manner."

"There, my dear Aunt," she said, suddenly stung by the injustice of the remark, "you are much mistaken. Mr Thornton has the warmest heart of any man living. And his reticence, well... I – I believe that something must have happened to annoy him." She mustered her brightest smile to soften the reproach, took her aunt's hand and squeezed it. "As for _that_, it was nothing at all."

Then, Margaret turned away, busying herself with the travelling rug, so that Aunt Shaw should not see the hot tears that came quite unexpectedly into her eyes. But her voice was steady:

"It was a thing of no consequence."

**Author's note:**

Dear everyone, here's the final chapter at last! It was written months ago, but while Chapter 3 was being ironed out, and while I was being distracted by other N&S story strands, this one got nowhere. Thanks for your patience, and I do hope you've enjoyed reading this despite the break in between.

I should add that the conversation between Margaret and Mr Thornton before she expresses her gratitude, and Mrs Thornton's announcement of Margaret's impending departure were either taken or adapted from the novel (Chapter 43) or the BBC drama.


End file.
